1 Am
by the Zoshi
Summary: It's late at night, and you just figured out your best friend is a werewolf.


Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or whatever seriously yes

A/N: I wanted to write Christmas Sterek, but this came out instead.

I prefer it.

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Title: 1 AM

Author: 30HowlsStrong (theZoshi)  
Genre: Gen  
Fandom: Teen Wolf

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You were six years old when you met Scott McCall, and while you constantly say your first memory of him is the first day of first grade (because it just goes together so well) it's actually his seventh birthday party (yours wouldn't come for a while) and you remember it especially well because right after the pizza came out his parents started arguing loudly in the kitchen while the kids continued watching Arthur and the other parents started handing out the slices of cheese pizza and warning everyone to wash their hands before they go back to playing.

"It's okay," You remember saying as you patted Scott on the back, giving the dark-haired boy a wide grin. "My parents argue sometimes too."

Thinking back on it now, he might have had a look on his face that was screaming _It's not just sometimes!,_ but kid-you wouldn't have known how to read it anyways. Kid-you hadn't been paying much attention to his expression, actually, because Scott had Batman AND Superman AND Joker AND a whole playset for them to catch bad guys on and you only had Batman and he was missing an arm and half a leg from the time you tried to make him fly with his Batglider by throwing him out your bedroom window in the middle of the night with a flashlight taped to his back.

You have very few vivid memories of that day - the playset, Scott's parents arguing, climbing the McCall's wooden bookshelf to see what was on top of it (you never did find out because you got pulled off of it before you could get there) - but the second most vivid memory you had was of an older girl following you around, nagging at you that you shouldn't leave your pizza laying on the couch because that was messy and someone could sit on it. You remember her sighing and rolling her eyes, and you remember her putting her hands on her hips and saying,

"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

You remember pushing her, too, and how she fell backwards over Scott's Playmobil Great Dragon Castle. She'd started sobbing as soon as she hit the floor, and anticipating your dad's sharp look, you'd spread your hands helplessly and then stooped to pick up a few of the scattered toys that lay at your feet.

"I didn't mean to but she was in my way."

You had to apologize to the girl, and then your mother took her on her knees and explained to you why you shouldn't push anyone, and then your dad patted you on the back and told you to go play, _nicely_, and after all that Scott came up to you, his party hat all crooked on his head, and said,

"It's okay, she's always a big crybaby."

You remember that moment most clearly of all, because you're pretty sure that that was the moment you decided that Scott Mccall was going to be your best friend.

You don't know why you're remembering any of it right then. It's one in the morning and you're laying on your back on your bed and staring up at the cieling. Your desk and most of the floor space in your room is covered in print outs and open books and if you were to look over at your laptop screen you'd be greeted by the oh-so-cheerful mug of a snarling 19th century werewolf illustration. You've spent hours you can't remember clearly researching every piece of werewolf legend you could find, and all that information is spinning its way round your head, flickering past your mind's eye as you try to grab a hold of something, anything, long enough to really think on it.

You're finally losing your focus. You're finally feeling worn out. You should go to the bathroom, you think, and you get up and get to the bedroom door, somehow managing to keep from falling over the slippery trail of paper extending from your desk to the bookshelf at the back of your room. You end up in the kitchen instead of the bathroom, because you're hungry you realize (did you even have dinner?) and your thoughts turn back to Scott as you rummage through the fridge shelves.

Scott, your best friend, is a werewolf. You very rarely wish you'd stop making stupid jokes, but this one time would have to be the exception, because even though you know it wouldn't change a thing you can't help but think that if you hadn't made the joke, then it wouldn't have ended up coming true.

Then again, if you hadn't dragged Scott out into the woods with you that night... well, in the end it all comes back to you again, doesn't it?

Scott was a werewolf. Scott didn't need his inhaler anymore. Scott could play lacrosse better than most of the first line players. Scott got the girl in less than a day. Scott was suddenly becoming a cool guy and that was bugging you just a bit.

Because of the werewolf thing, of course. Of course. Your best friend was suddenly changing from the awkward side-lined asthmatic trying too hard to be something other than... well, the awkward side-lined asthmatic, into a total jock due to a horrible and unforgiving curse and that was where the problem was. No, the problem was that on top of all of those things he was also absolutely clueless about the whole thing, and would probably remain so if it wasn't for you, the caring best friend who spent the whole night looking up ways to make things go back to the way they were. No, you realize you phrased that wrong, and try again; spent the whole night looking up ways to _cure him from his awful and dreadful fate._

You'd polished off two drumsticks and washed them down with some orange juice but that empty pit right below your rib cage is still there. It's nearing two in the morning and you're tired but not sleepy at all and you have school to get to when you wake up (if you manage to fall asleep eventually) and you're thinking about how your best friend is a werewolf and how there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

It's that perfect time - It always seems to be you, at two in the morning, staring out the window at the black silhouettes of trees against a dark night sky (sometimes it is storm clouds and sometimes the full moon filters through the leaves) realizing that world is spinning around you quicker than even your mind can keep up with and you can throw your hands out to try to grasp it but it'll never pause long enough to let you do that. The sun will come up tomorrow, and Scott will still be a werewolf, and you will still be powerless to do anything.

You rinse your hands in the kitchen sink and you make your way back up to the bathroom. Your dad isn't home and you're glad he isn't because if he saw you up at two in the morning he'd know exactly why, and you're so desperately sick and tired of letting him down.

You'll go to bed.

Maybe, if you're lucky, you'll go to sleep too.

And when the sun rises you'll get up, and you'll go out into the world, and you'll throw your hands out again (with that optimism that comes only when you find yourself at the end of your rope with no where to go but up) and maybe, possibly, if you try hard enough, you'll be able to catch just the slightest hold of it as it spins past.


End file.
